Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [115]
Now, the Federal troops were gone, pulling back, to unite with Pope’s larger army, and so Longstreet’s men kept moving forward, up and over the mountain, toward their rendezvous with Jackson.
They rode slowly, a steady rhythm, and behind them the officers were shouting now, for the hills were steep and the heat was draining the men. Lee could hear the commands, “Keep up,” “Stay together,” and he sat up straighter, crested the hill, saw shattered trees and broken wagons, noticed the fresh smell of yesterday’s fight. Along the wide ridge, in the rocks and beyond, the bodies of men still lay, exposed. Lee saw the uniforms, both sides, a vicious fight in a tight area, and the army was now pushing through, quickly, too soon for even the burial parties. They had marched nearly thirty miles in thirty hours, and so it was not just the heat that deadened their steps.
Lee saw the Texans moving below, keeping a tight line, spread far to each side, and he smiled, thankful. Behind him, he heard voices, then one voice, the deep, booming sound of John Bell Hood.
“Well, dammit, move them along! It’s just a hill!”
Lee turned, saw Hood approach, a small staff following.
“General Lee, forgive me, I had meant to ride with you earlier. We’re having a bit of trouble getting these men up this damned hill . . . begging your pardon, sir.”
Lee nodded, and Longstreet turned in his saddle. Hood abruptly saluted, and it was an awkward moment. Longstreet was Hood’s commander, and Hood knew he should have spoken to Longstreet first. It was a small error, one of those annoying pieces of military etiquette that Hood had not yet mastered.
“General Longstreet, I have ordered the company commanders to push the men hard, get them up this hill with all speed.”
“That’s good, General.” Longstreet spoke from under a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low so his face was half hidden. Hood looked at Lee, and Lee saw the eyes, the wide, excited face, the thick blond beard, and he thought of Texas, knew Hood had not changed. He had performed brilliantly as a commander, had led his Texans with a fire that infected them all, and Lee knew that if it was critical, if one man could be sent into the furnace, could face the deadly hell and turn the tide, it would be Hood.
Hood said, “I’d best get back down the line . . . see how we’re doing.” He saluted, Longstreet returned it, and Hood glanced at Lee with sharp, smiling eyes. Lee nodded, knew that Hood remembered Texas too, the shared experiences, unspoken feelings men have when they both know they are good soldiers.
Lee turned to Longstreet, who was staring ahead, peeking out under the brim of his hat.
“We shall need him, I believe, before this is through. Make good use of him, General.”
Longstreet did not turn, kept staring to the front, said, “I’ve seen him work, General. He will have his chance again.”
Lee followed Longstreet’s stare, tried to see what held his attention. He had seen the look before, as though Longstreet were seeing something far away, well beyond the horizon.
Longstreet was partially deaf, and others who did not know him well often mistook it for aloofness or simple rudeness. He was not a man for fluent conversation, did not join in around the campfire, the jovial, drunken revelry that too often surrounded the headquarters. Lee had learned to respect him as a commander, knew Joe Johnston had relied on him often. He had not known Longstreet long, had not known him at all before the war.
Longstreet came home from Mexico with a wound that hadn’t healed for a long time. He settled into a career as a paymaster in the old army, had spent most of the peacetime years out West, in El Paso and Albuquerque, and never had